K Is for Killer Page 10

  "I didn't hear about it. I saw it."

  "You did not. You saw that?"

  "Sure, I have a copy."

  "Well, that's weird. That video was never released."

  Now it was my turn to express skepticism. "Really? It never went into distribution? I don't believe it." We sounded like a couple of talking birds.

  "That's what she said. She was pissed off about it, too. She thought it could be her big break, but there was nothing she could do."

  "The cassette I saw was edited, packaged, the whole bit. They must have had a lot of money tied up in it. What's the story?"

  "I just know what she said. Maybe the venture was undercapitalized, whatever the term is. How'd you get a copy?"

  "Someone sent it to her mother."

  Danielle barked out a laugh. "You're kidding. That's gross. What kind of jerk would do a thing like that?"

  "I don't know yet. I'm hoping to find out. What else can you tell me?"

  "No, no. You ask and I'll answer. I can't think of anything off the top of my head."

  "Who's Lester?"

  "Lester had nothing to do with Lorna."

  "But who is he?"

  She gave me a look. "What's it to you?"

  "You're afraid of him, and I want to know why."

  "Get off it. You're wasting your money."

  "Maybe I can afford it."

  "Oh, right. On what you make? That's bullshit."

  "Actually, I don't even know what you're charging."

  "Trick rates. Fifty bucks."

  "An hour?" I yelped.

  "Not an hour. What's the matter with you? Fifty bucks a trick. Nothing about sex takes an hour," she said contemptuously. "Anybody says it's an hour is rippin' you off."

  "I take it Lester's your pimp."

  "Listen to her. 'Pimp.' Who taught you to talk that way? Lester Dudley – Mr. Dickhead to you – is my personal manager. He's like my professional representative."

  "Did he represent Lorna?"

  "Of course not. I already told you, she was smart. She declined his services."

  "You think he'd have any information about her?"

  "Not a chance. Don't even bother. The guy's a real piece of shit."

  I thought for a moment, but I'd covered the questions that came readily to mind. "Well. This should do for now. If you think of anything else, will you get in touch?"

  "Sure," she said. "As long as you got the money, I got the mouth... so to speak."

  I picked up my handbag and took out my wallet. I gave her a business card, jotting my home address and telephone number on the back. Ordinarily I don't like to give out that information, but I wanted to make it as easy for her as possible. I reviewed my cash supply. I thought maybe she'd be magnanimous and waive her fees, but she held her hand out, watching carefully as I counted bills into her palm. I had to make up the last dollar with the loose change in the bottom of my bag. Of course, I was short.

  "Don't worry about it. You can owe me the dime."

  "I'll give you an IOU," I said.

  She waved the offer aside. "I trust you." She tucked the money in her jacket pocket. "Men are funny, you know? Big male fantasy about hookers? I see this in all these books written by men. Some guy meets a hooker and she's gorgeous: big knockers, refined, and she's got the hots for him. Him and her end up bonking, and when he's done, she won't take his money. He's so wonderful, she doesn't want to charge him money like she does everyone else. Now that's bullshit for sure. I never knew a hooker who'd do a guy for free. Anyway, hooker sex is for shit. If he thinks that's a gift, then the joke's on him."

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  It was close to one-thirty in the morning when I parked my VW in the little parking lot outside the emergency entrance to St. Terry's Hospital. After my conversation with Danielle, Cheney had dropped me back at my place. I moved in through the squeaking gate and around to the back. I heard Cheney give his horn a short toot, and then he took off. The night sky was still clear, bright with stars, but I could see patchy clouds collecting at the western edge as predicted. An airplane moved across my field of vision, a distant dot of red winking among the pinpricks of white, the sound trailing behind it like a banner advertising flight. The final quarter of the moon had narrowed to the curved silver of a shepherd's crook, a cloud like a wisp of cotton caught in its crescent. I could have sworn I still heard the booming music that had shaken Neptune's Palace. In reality, the club was less than a mile from my apartment, and I suppose it was possible the sound might have carried. It was more likely a stereo or a car radio in much closer range. Against the drumming of the high tide at the ocean half a block away, the faint thump of bass was a muted counterpoint, brooding, silky, and indistinct.

  I paused, keys in hand, and leaned my head briefly against the door to my place. I was tired, but curiously disinterested in sleep. I've always been a day person, thoroughly addicted to early rising and morning sunshine in a nine-to-five world. I might work late on occasion, but for the most part I'm home by early evening and sound asleep by eleven. Tonight, yet again, I was nudged by restlessness. Some long suppressed aspect of my personality was being activated, and I could feel myself respond. I wanted to talk to Serena Bonney, the nurse who'd discovered Lorna's body. Somewhere in the accumulating verbal portrait of Lorna Kepler was the key to her death. I went back through the gate and closed it quietly behind me.

  The emergency room had an air of abandonment. The sliding glass doors opened with a hush, and I moved into the quiet of the blue-and-gray space. There were lights on in the reception area, but the patient registration windows had been closed for hours. To the left, behind a small partition with its wall-mounted pay telephones, the waiting room was empty, the TV a square of blank gray. I peered to the right, toward the examining rooms. Most were dark, with the surrounding curtains pulled back and secured on overhead tracks. I could smell freshly perked coffee wafting from a little kitchenette at the rear of the facility. A young black woman in a white lab coat came out of a doorway marked "Linens." She was small and pretty. She paused when she spotted me, flashing a smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here. Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Serena Bonney. Is she working this shift?"

  The woman glanced at her watch. "She should be back shortly. She's on her break. You want to have a seat? The TV's on the blink, but there's lots of reading material."

  "Thanks."

  For the next fifteen minutes, I read outdated issues of Family Circle magazine: articles about children, health and fitness, nutrition, home decorating, and inexpensive home-building projects meant for Dad in his spare time – a wooden bench, a treehouse, a rustic shelf to support Mom's picturesque garden of container herbs. To me, it was like reading about life on an alien planet. All the ads showed such perfect women. Most were thirty years old, white, and had flawless complexions. Their teeth were snowy and even. None of them had wide bottoms or kangaroo pouches that pulled their slacks out of shape. There was no sign of cellulite, spider veins, or breasts drooping down to their waists. These perfect women lived in well-ordered houses with gleaming floors, an inconceivable array of home appliances, oversize fluffy mutts, and no visible men. I guess Dad was relegated to the office between his woodworking projects. Intellectually I understood that these were all highly paid models simply posing as housewives for the purpose of selling Kotex, floor covering, and dog food. Their lives were probably as far removed from housewifery as mine was. But what did you do if you actually were a housewife, confronted with all these images of perfection on the hoof? From my perspective, I couldn't see any connection at all between my lifestyle (hookers, death, celibacy, handguns, and fast food) and the lifestyle depicted in the magazine, which was probably just as well. What would I do with a fluffy mutt and containers full of dill and marjoram?

  "I'm Serena Bonney. Did you want to see me?"

  I looked up. The nurse in the doorway was in her early forties, a good-size woman, maybe five feet t
en. She wasn't obese by any stretch, but she carried a lot of weight on her frame. The women in her family probably described themselves as "hearty peasant stock."

  I set the magazine aside and got to my feet, holding out my hand. "Kinsey Millhone," I said. "Lorna Kepler's mother hired me to look into her death."

  "Again?" she remarked as she shook my hand.

  "Actually, the case is still open. Can I take a few minutes of your time?"

  "It's a funny hour for an investigation."

  "I should apologize for that. I wouldn't ordinarily bother you at work, but I've been suffering insomnia for the last couple of nights, and I thought I might as well take advantage of the fact that you're working."

  "I don't really know much, but I'll do what I can. Why don't you come on into the back? It's quiet at the moment, but that may not last long."

  We moved past two examining rooms and into a small, sparsely furnished office. Like the nurses upstairs, she was dressed in ordinary street clothes: a white cotton blouse, beige gabardine pants, and a matching vest. The crepe-soled shoes marked her as someone who stood for long hours on her feet. Also her wristwatch, like a meat thermometer with a sweeping second hand. Serena paused at the door frame and leaned out into the hall. "I'll be in here if you need me, Joan."

  "No problem," came the reply.

  Serena left the door ajar, positioning her chair so she could keep an eye on the corridor. "Sorry you had to wait. I was up on the medical floor. My father was readmitted a couple of days ago, and I try to peek in at him every chance I get." She had a wide, unlined face and high cheekbones. Her teeth were straight and square, but slightly discolored, perhaps the result of illness or poor nutrition in her youth. Her eyes were light green, her brows pale.

  "Is his illness serious?" I sat down on a chrome chair with a seat padded in blue tweed.

  "He had a massive heart attack a year ago and had a pacemaker put in. He's been having problems with it, and they wanted to check it out. He tends to be a bit obstreperous. He's seventy-five, but very active. He practically runs the Colgate Water Board, and he hates to miss a meeting. He thrives on adrenaline."

  "Your father isn't Clark Esselmann, by any chance?"

  "You know him?"

  "I know his reputation. I had no idea. He's always raising hell with the developers." He'd been involved in local politics for fifteen years, since he'd sold his real estate company and retired in splendor. From what I'd heard, he had a rough temper and a tongue that could shift from saltiness to eloquence depending on the subject. He was stubborn and outspoken, a respectable board member for half a dozen charities.

  She smiled. "That's him," she said. She slid a hand through her hair, which was coppery, a cross between red and dark gold. It looked as though she'd had some kind of body permanent, because the curl seemed too pronounced to be entirely natural. The cut was short, the style uncomplicated. I pictured her running a brush through her hair after her morning shower. Her hands were big and her nails blunt cut but nicely manicured. She spent money on herself, but not in any way that seemed flashy. Suffering illness or injury, I'd have trusted her on sight.

  I murmured something innocuous and then changed the focus of the conversation. "What can you tell me about Lorna?"

  "I didn't know her well. I should probably say that up front."

  "Janice mentioned that you're married to the fellow Lorna worked for at the water treatment plant."

  "More or less," she said. "Roger and I have been separated for about eighteen months. I'll tell you, the last few years have been hellish, to say the least. My marriage fell apart, my father had a heart attack, and then Mother died. After that, Daddy's health problems only got worse. Lorna house-sat for me when I needed to get away."

  "You met her through your husband?"

  "Yes. She worked for Roger for a little over three years, so I'd run into her if I popped in at the plant. I'd see her at the employee picnics in the summer and the annual Christmas party. I thought she was fascinating. Clearly a lot smarter than the job required."

  "The two of you got along?"

  "We got along fine."

  I paused, wondering how to phrase the question that occurred to me. "If it's not too personal, can you tell me about your divorce?"

  "My divorce?" she said.

  "Who filed? Was it you or your husband?"

  She cocked her head. "That's a curious question. What makes you ask?"

  "I was wondering if your separation from Roger had anything to do with Lorna."

  Serena's laugh was quick and startled. "Oh, good heavens. Not at all," she said. "We'd been married ten years, and we both got bored. He was the one who broached the subject, but he certainly didn't get any grief from me. I understood where he was coming from. He feels he has a dead-end job. He likes what he does, but he's never going to get rich. He's one of those guys whose life hasn't quite come up to his expectations. He pictured himself retired by the age of fifty. Now he's past that, and he still hasn't got a dime. On the other hand, I not only have a career I'm passionate about, but I'll have family money coming to me one of these days. Living with that got to be too much for him. We're still on friendly terms, we're just not intimate, which you're welcome to verify with him."

  "I'll take your word for it," I said, though of course I'd check. "What about the house-sitting? How'd Lorna end up doing that?"

  "I don't remember exactly. I probably mentioned in passing that I needed someone. Her place was small and remarkably crude. I thought she'd enjoy spending time in a more comfortable setting."

  "How often did she sit?"

  "Five or six times altogether, I'd guess. She hadn't done it for a while, but Roger thought she was still willing. I could check my calendar at home if it seems relevant."

  "At the moment I don't know what's relevant and what's not. Were you satisfied with the job she did?"

  "Sure. She was responsible; fed and walked the dog, watered plants, brought in the newspaper and the mail. It saved me the kennel fees, and I liked having someone in the house while I was gone. After Roger and I split, I moved back in to my parents' house. I was interested in a change of scene, and Dad needed some unofficial supervision because of his health. Mother's cancer had already been diagnosed and she was doing chemo. This was an arrangement that suited all of us."

  "So you were living at your father's at the time Lorna died?"

  "That's right. He's been under doctor's care, but he's what they call a 'noncompliant' patient. I had plans to be out of town, and I didn't want him in the house alone. Dad was adamant. He swore he didn't need help, but I insisted. What's the point of a getaway weekend if I'm worried about him the whole time? As a matter of fact, that's what I was trying to set up when I went to her place and found her. I'd tried calling for days, and there was never any answer. Roger told me she was taking a couple of weeks' accrued vacation, but she was due back any day. I wasn't sure when she'd get in, so I thought I'd stop by and leave her a little note. I parked near the cabin, and I was just getting out of my car when I noticed the smell, not to mention the flies."

  "You knew what it was?"

  "Well, I didn't know it was her, but I knew it was something dead. The odor's quite distinct."

  I shifted the subject slightly. "Everyone I've interviewed so far has talked about how beautiful she was. I wondered if other women regarded her as a threat."

  "I never did. Of course, I can't speak for anyone else," she said. "Men seemed to find her more appealing than women, but I never saw her flirt. Again, I'm only talking about the occasions when I saw her."

  "From what I hear, she liked living on the edge," I said. I introduced the matter without framing a question, interested in what kind of response I might get. Serena held my gaze, but she made no reply. So far she'd tended to editorialize on every question I asked. I ran the query one more round. "Were you aware that she was involved in other activities?"

  "I don't understand the question. What kind of activities are you ref
erring to?"

  "Of a sexual nature."

  "Ah. That. Yes. I assume you're referring to the money she made from the hotel trade. Humping for hire," she said drolly. "I didn't think it was my place to bring that up."

  "Was it common knowledge?"

  "I don't think Roger knew, but I certainly did."

  "How did you find out?"

  "I'm not sure. I really can't remember. Indirectly, I think. I ran into her at the Edgewater one night. No, wait a minute. I remember what happened. She came into the ER with a broken nose. She had some explanation, but it didn't make much sense. I've seen assault and battery often enough that I wasn't fooled. I didn't say so to her, but I knew something was going on."

  "Could it have been a boyfriend? Someone she was living with?"

  I could hear voices in the hallway.

  She glanced over at the door. "I guess it could have been, but as far as I knew she was never in any kind of steady relationship. Anyway, the story she told seemed suspect. I've forgotten what it was now, but it seemed phony as hell. And it wasn't just the broken nose. It was that in conjunction with some other things."

  "Such as?"

  "Her wardrobe, her jewelry. She was subtle about it, but I couldn't help noticing."

  "When was the incident that brought her to the emergency room?"

  "I don't remember exactly. Probably two years ago. Check with Medical Records. They can give you the date."

  "You don't know hospitals. I'd have better luck getting access to state secrets," I said.

  A baby had begun to cry fretfully in the waiting room.

  "Does it make a difference?"

  "It might. Suppose the guy who punched her decided to make it permanent."

  "Oh. I see your point." Serena's eyes strayed to the open door again as Joan went past.

  "But she didn't confide in you when she came in?"